I Observe the Poem Writes Itself

I drink tea, stare long hours
at gold lacquer, cherry tabletop
suspend a brush above the page as if it might
write a single perfect script

what would it mean?

I am only an observer.

the poem starts again when the foot placed firmly, shifts
its weight pressed down into the back heel, pivots the measured
two inches.

the precise movement of this poem will discern
the pelvis turning, hip rolling over like a wet smooth stone.
the poem will be martial in its enunciation
-op -op -op
its syllables fall as rain, but the artist
is not distracted.

when he strikes, he will feel the poem
trembling
in the center of his fist.

the monk, in contrast, chews the poem.
for him, it is a piece of meat-
forbidden,
lengthily justified.

He rolls up his robes
sews the poem's insistence behind a button
where it will not be noticed. "who writes
the poem?" chant the monks.
no-one knows. thus
another 70 years is embarked upon.

to the musician, the poem snails its way up
through the arches and knees, finds the anticipated
hollow between shoulder blades,
transmutes into a coiled dragon, attacks
the strings through the wrists.

fingers, hopeless mediums, babbling beautiful nonsense.

the audience is enthralled. the musician bows,
shattered to the core.

the poem stands
in a military tent, dressed in navy and gold,
murmuring unquestionable orders.

a magician is the poem's chief adviser. they discuss
thunder,
the position of the stars,
the hidden meaning of men's ambition.

the poem, rubbing its beard carefully,
orders someone's death.

when the poem is in love
it scrubs itself with salt on a wooden bench,
revels in a poured basin of pure water,
stands naked in a thin kimono looking out at dew-tipped ferns.

Who knows
the comings and goings of a poem?
traveling the inner corridors
of light,
dreams, blood-
it speaks or is silent,
is gone.